Metamorphosis

Dr. B and I are no stranger to things changing in our lives. We moved away from our home state for his graduate school, and when he finished that, we left the country and spent a year in Paris. We came home, returning to the familiar, and then began our journey as parents-to-be. For the most part, things always seemed to turn out for us. Whether this is due to my guardian angel or not, we had always come out on top.

Then Rowan was born. Now don't get me wrong--this wasn't a bad thing. But it didn't turn out just as we expected.

Rowan had colic for the first few months of her life. She would scream and cry and fuss for hours and hours on end, and nothing we did would calm her. She would not be soothed. It tore at our hearts to see our little girl upset, when we could find nothing to help her. And not only that, she didn't seem to even know we existed. She didn't love us. She didn't need us. We couldn't help her and she didn't care.

I felt like a failure. For one of the first times in my life, I was failing at something.

I led an easy life--I got good grades, learned easily, made friends, was happy. I was both talented, gifted, lucky. Though I had dealt with things that were difficult, I always came through it. But this time, no amount of thinking or research or planning or intuition could solve this problem. I couldn't do it. And I didn't know how to take that.

I had thought, before she was born, that the connection would be instant. That I would love her more than life itself from day one, like all parents talk about. But it just wasn't that way. I loved her, yes. But I didn't like her that much. She wasn't very easy to like. Yes, she was beautiful, and perfect, and wonderful and a blessing from God. But she was very difficult, and it was difficult to deal with the fact that I wasn't completely in love with my daughter. I felt awful, but sometimes I was very angry, and frustrated and defeated. I was very ashamed. I felt like a terrible mother.

Then, Dr. B had to come to Pennsylvania to start his job, and we spent six weeks visiting family. I was scared. Scared to death. It was all on me.

It was tough, though I had the help of our family. But it was still up to me. Then slowly, it started to get easier. She still had her tough days, but they were fewer. She started smiling, and one day she smiled when she saw me. And things started to change. Very slowly, they started to change.

Last week, Dr. B had a conference in Washington DC for four days. I was all alone, with her and with Lucy. And it was fine. No, better than fine. It was good.

The other day, Rowan had her 4 month shots. She screamed when the nurse poked her, and cried desperately as I gathered up her papers and checked out. We went outside, and I took her in my arms and sat on the grass with her, holding her close and cuddling her and singing silly songs until she calmed down and returned to her happy self.

The next day, she was still reacting to the shots. This time she wasn't fussy, but she did take more naps, and long ones. I found myself checking on her, often.

And then I realized it. I couldn't wait for her to wake up. I missed her.

This is one change I am very proud of. This is a real accomplishment. This means more to me than a doctoral degree or a year abroad or the perfect job or the best performance.



I am absolutely, positively in love with my daughter. I look forward to waking her up in the morning, and I can't wait to snuggle with her when I hear her stir. Her laughter gives me that "squeeee!!!" feeling I got the first time Dr. B called me for a date. Her smiles light up my world. When she buries her face in my neck as I carry her up to bed, I'm in heaven.

I'm a Mom, and now I finally feel like a good one.

Heaven Sent

The Littlest Angel, originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

Thanks, Mom. She's beautiful.

Football

Dr. B and I aren't football fans. Frankly, sports aren't the least bit interesting for us, save of course for the best team in the world. Last night, as we met some of his colleagues for supper at Otto's Brewpub in State College, we were asked who we'd be rooting for during today's big homecoming game. I saw some Badger fans, glowingly happy in their cherry red jackets, and I felt, well, a little homesick.

I like State College. It's my new home, and it's Dr. B's new job, which he really enjoys. It's a great university, great reputation, beautiful area, blah blah blah. But I spent seven years of my life in Cheezland, drinking the wonderful local microbrews with lots of wonderful friends, enjoying squeaky curds (well, not often--I'm not a big fan of those. Cheese really shouldn't squeak.) and eating brats (well, not a lot of those either--have you seen the cholesterol count?) so it's hard to say "Go Lions!" when for years it's been "Go Badgers!" (Of course, unless they were playing the Fighting Sioux, but that's a given. We will always bleed green.)

So today, I admit to mixed emotions when finding out that the Nittany Lions trounced the Badgers in an embarrassing event at the local stadium.

I feel a little guilty. I saw my Wisconsin sweatshirt, neatly folded on the top shelf of the closet, and I didn't put it on.

Shame on me.

Sorry, Badgers. I'll have to do penance.

Would cheese curds and a brat help?

A Surprise Will Appear in My Pants

A Surprise Will Appear in My Pants, originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

Fortune cookie fortunes always come true.

Child Star

Good Morning! from Ronica on Vimeo.

This is amazing. Pretty much the definition of camera shy.

I guess they'll never make a movie starring her.

Oh well. I'll just have to win the lottery to make my millions. (Maybe I should start playing?)

But you have to admit, she is pretty cute.

When Making Yogurt

for the first time with your new yogurt maker

(because we can't find our favorite kind here, and France spoiled us)

scorched is not a flavor.


Crap.








.

If

you accidentally put Preparation H on your toe instead of Neosporin, will you get hemorrhoids on your feet?

Oops.

Defeat

Rowan is four months old now, and she's starting to develop a schedule. She isn't rigid, but she often takes a morning nap, and sometimes takes an afternoon nap. She likes to go to bed around the same time and wake up around the same time, playing by herself for a few minutes in her crib every morning and greeting me with a grin and a giggle. And knock on wood, she's sleeping through the night. (She won't tonight, because I said that.) I can go out and do errands, but only after the morning nap, and not every day.

When she was little, we'd often strap her in the carseat, go out for dinner, and she'd be great. We could head out late, enjoy our supper, and she'd sleep away, charming the waiters and other restaurant patrons with how good she was.

Dr. B was determined that our child would be different. She'd grow up with our lifestyle, and would naturally take to it. She wouldn't be like other kids, and force her parents to do her bidding. She'd eat artichoke hearts and camembert sandwiches, eschew chicken nuggets and mac'n'cheese, and would behave herself perfectly well in the most trendy/snotty/fancy/of-the-moment restaurants while we leisurely enjoyed a glass of wine and rosemary goat cheese wontons with thai curry lingonberry chutney*.

Last night, Dr. B got home rather late from work. He had a very important phone call with a very important group about a new project that he and a colleague want to try that day, and he had been very nervous about it. The call went well, and he wanted to celebrate. Since he knew I had run errands during the day and taken Lucy for a long walk, he offered to take me out to dinner. But, by the time he got home and we were ready to go, it was 8 PM. And Rowan wasn't having any of it.

We diapered her, put her in her jammies, and strapped her into the car seat. That's when the trouble started. Before we could snap the buckles, she was wailing. Dr. B was not about to be told what to do by a 17 week old baby. He grabbed the car seat, and walked out the door. As I picked up the diaper bag and began to follow him, the tears started. Dr. B stomped to the gate, and then stomped back when I asked him to lock the door to the house. By the time we clicked her into the base in the car, she was going full force. Bloody murder screaming.

Determined, Dr. B set his jaw and put the car in gear. "I'll feed her at the restaurant," I offered. "The place is close, right?"

More screaming from the back seat.

"I'm sorry, Honey. It's just late. She wants to be home, going to bed."

"She can sleep in her car seat. She'll be fine," he said.

"You tell her that."

We stopped at the end of the drive, and Dr. B sighed. We listened to her scream for a few minutes more, and I turned to look at him. "We can go, honey," I said. "There aren't any cars coming."

He sighed deeply. "I'll take you back, and go get the pizza and bring it home," he said, angry but defeated.

As soon as Rowan's car seat was picked up, she stopped crying. As I unstrapped her, she sighed with relief. She ate slowly as if savoring her meal, and muttered not a peep when I layed her down in her crib, even though her mobile was out of batteries and she had to make due with just the womb bear and a soothie.

Dr. B came home just as I walked back down the stairs, loaded down with spicy stuffed banana peppers, BBQ chicken pizza, wine, and yogurt and coffee (the things I had forgotten at the store.)

"You were right," he said as he poured me a glass of wine. "I pushed it and it didn't work, it wasn't fair. To either of you."

"You can reason with just about anyone," I answered, "except a 4 month old baby. There's no messing with her."

Bring on the chicken nuggets.



*I made this up. Sounds gross, doesn't it?

Podunk Hospital

Saturday night, Dr. B and I were getting ready for bed, tripping over each other in our tiny bathroom as we tried to brush our teeth, wash our face (OK, mine) and take out our contacts (OK, mine again.) His haus-schuh (German wool clog) brushed over my big toe, and I screamed. "AAAARRGGHHH!!!!! YOU HAVE TO BE MORE CAREFUL!!!"

He took one look at my swollen, pink toe and shook his head.

"Honey, that's infected. It's not getting better. You have to go to the doctor."

Crap.

Yeah, an ingrown toenail. And I have to go to the doctor. Great.

So, the next day I started making calls. Being new to the area, we didn't yet have a regular doc, and I didn't know who to see. In Madison, at the top-rated clinics and hospitals, I would have gone to Acute Care or Urgent Care, been given a referral, and then seen a special foot doctor at the special clinic. Efficient, clean, organized--and don't you dare deviate from the plan. But no matter what, all I would have to do is tell my problem to whomever answered the phone, and I would be shuttled off to the right person/place/time in a wink.

"Um, I don't know. Huh. Hmm. Uh.... Well, I suppose you should see a podiatrist?"

Great. I got the guy with all the information.

"I don't know if we have any around here. You could always come to the ER."

Wonderful. The emergency room. For a toenail.

"Let me send you back to the ER. They should be able to tell you."

OK, fine. ER. They should know.

"Oh. An ingrown toenail? Infected? Huh. I guess you should see a podiatrist."

This is going great. Boy, I have incredible confidence in the medical system, let me tell you.

"Huh. I don't know if we have any around here. Or if they're taking new patients. Maybe you should just come in to the ER."

(Me) "For a toenail? Really?"

"Yeah, it's fine. No big deal!"

OK. The ER for a toenail. I can't quite accept this.

(Me again, expecting a 3 hour wait.) "So, when are you least busy?"

"Ha ha! Oh, you never know. Sometimes it's quiet, then it gets real busy... might even change between the time you call and the time you arrive. We never know! Just come in when you can."

Okey dokey.

So, Monday morning I ate lunch early, packed Rowan into the car, and after dropping off a shelf to be repaired at the glass shop ("We're real busy, it might take until Friday!"), went to the ER. I packed 3 books for her and a book for me, plus puppy dog finger puppets (it's good to have a soon-to-be uncle who works for Manhattan Toy).

We arrived, and I went up to the desk. "I feel kind of stupid about this, but I have an ingrown toenail." She assured me it was no problem, gave me a form to fill out (name, injury, birthdate and SSN. That was it.) I was shown in to be registered in a few minutes. A few minutes later, I was back in a room. And a few minutes later, I saw a doctor. He didn't quite seem to know what he was doing, but he was quick.

"Hmmm... I don't know if I can do anything with this. I can give you antibiotics, but I think you'll need to see a podiatrist. I don't know if there are any in the area."

Broken record?

I sat there, staring at my toe, and wondering if I'd have to drive all the way to Pittsburgh or Philly to see a doctor. For a stupid ingrown toenail. Would Dr. B have to take off work? Could I drive myself? Would I have to be admitted? Are we talking real surgery here?

A few minutes later, he came back.

"If you can wait 25 minutes, we have a PA that can do the surgical procedure for you."

25 minutes? I was planning on 3 hours!!! "Yeah, I can wait."

I fed Rowan, read her a story, and began reading my own book. Then the PA (a Mommy of one boy, who cooed over Rowan's adorable Robeez) came in, with a nurse (a Daddy of 3 girls) who offered to hold the baby.

Then the fights began. 3 more volunteers came into our room during the procedure, arguing over who got to hold the baby (2 Grandpas and a Grandma.)

Yep, we're in a small town.

The PA was excellent, numbing my toe with lots of lidocaine (4 CC's), cutting quickly and efficiently, and showing me afterwards the jagged edge that had been causing the pain. One of the volunteers cleaned up my foot (after reluctantly giving up the baby). Another came to wheel me to my car afterwards, helping me juggle the diaper bag, my purse and the car seat, and neatly folding my prescriptions and instructions and putting them in the bag for me.

I was given antibiotics, and instructions for 5 pain pills every four hours (2 tylenol, 3 advil.) "We could give you something stronger, but since you're breastfeeding..." the doctor said. I looked at him, and pointed to Rowan.

"29 hours of labor. I'll be fine."

Though the hospital may not have been the model of efficiency and experience Madison's are, they took good care of me, and made me feel more like I was being treated by my aunt and uncle, rather than a big city professional. And it was just fine.

So afterwards, I made a quick stop to get a replacement social security card for mine that I can't find and need to get a driver's license here (gotta love a small town--the wait was about 4 minutes.) We then ran to Walmart to get my prescription filled. After 10 minutes spent entering my information, the clerk smiled and said, "that will be 30 to 40 minutes."

You have got to be kidding me. I didn't wait that long in the ER.

Yeah, whatever. A ploy to get you to shop. But I needed groceries, and Dr. B needed a shoe rack for his closet, and I wanted to try to make a Christmas stocking for Rowan and needed some fuzzy chenille yarn, so I got everything taken care of in one stop. After a caramel sundae chez McDo, we headed home. (You have to take antiobiotics with food, you know, and that's food. Really.) I tried to lay her down for a nap after she ate and we took Lucy out for a potty break (during which Fuzz-Face stepped on my bad toe and then nearly tore my arm off trying to eat a cat), but Rowan was too wound up. We played, then went to meet Dr. B for supper out. (I had the duck sandwich, he had the Eddie D'licious.)

And Rowan hit the wall.

After a whole day of crazy errands and being a very good girl, she'd had enough. So, we took turns eating and holding/walking/soothing her, and came home. She ate again, got PJ'd up, and I laid her down. She was passed out after one revolution of the mobile.

That was just about the most productive day I've had since she was born. I may not have unpacked a single box, but I got a lot done. Sometimes, life is a lot easier in a small town.

I Look Exactly Like This

My sister's getting married in November in the Bahamas. And me being the super nice sister I am, I'm going. (Twist my rubber arm.) Dr. B is staying here. I know, that makes no sense to normal people, but to him it is very clear. He must pay off our debt (well, except student loans, the mortgage and the car) before he can do anything fun. He would just feel too guilty. (I don't understand either, but it's like the vacuum--you just don't argue with Mr. OCD.)

When I visited my aunt in August, we looked at the website for the resort we're going to be at for the wedding, and I realized that my stained and stretched out t-shirts and 4 year old capri pants just weren't going to cut it. So, I hit the Herberger's and bought a whole bunch of tropical-looking sundresses on 70% off. Got some new sandals, too. Found a bikini, sun hat and cover up for Rowan on clearance at Target. When visiting my sister the next week, we even found a dress for me to wear for the wedding at the BCBG Max Azria outlet. 40 bucks for a 400 dollar dress--not bad.

But, the thing I didn't have was a swimsuit. This being the Caribbean, I didn't think I could weasel my way out of wearing one too easily, and the last one I bought (in 2000 I think) was looking a little tired. It's so old, I'm not even sure the elastic still has the boing factor--I may be able to carry my suntan lotion in the extra room in the booty region.

But I hate suit shopping. Who doesn't? It sucks. The last time I had success was at a Lands' End inlet, after going through about 40 suits. Pick your reason for denial:

Smoosh the boobs
Poochy on the butt
Only fit when I slouch (I have a very long torso)
Two words: Michelin Man
So high in the leg I look like Jane Fonda circa 1983, only fatter
Make my skin look like dead fish flesh
Beefy
Bumpy
Squishy
Those fluorescent lights!

I'd heard Victoria's Secret had good suits. Really good.

Yeah, I didn't believe it either.

But, I gave it a go. To hedge my bets, I got a "long torso" size, 2 piece tankini. Ordered 2 sizes and 2 color combinations, knowing full well that the smaller one wouldn't fit, and expecting that neither one would look decent on me.

But I was wrong. Not about the smaller one fitting. It didn't.

But the other one did. See it up there? I look exactly like that in it. Really!

OK, not exactly. (Her hair is longer.) But I don't look half bad. The tummy pooch is hidden, it's not too high on the legs, the color is (for once) not black, the pattern is very cheerful without making me feel like I should be waiting tables at Cheezburger in Paradise, and it keeps the girls in place without smooshing them much. I actually like it. AND the matching capri pants were on sale for 10 bucks.

How can you beat that?

Zerbet!

I knew all those hours of practicing the trombone would pay off.



Zerbet from Ronica on Vimeo.

Band Directors make the best zerbeters. And their daughters are so zerbetable.

And it appears that an audio suggestion works as well...

5 Minutes

Rowan Amelia, 15 weeks, originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

Rowan is in a good mood today, but her naps have been short. Often, but short. Since I can't get much done unpacking-wise, I've been using the time to upload photos and videos.

This is my latest favorite, taken yesterday. Click it to head over to flickr to see more photos from the last 3 weeks.

And maybe this time she'll sleep for more than 5 minutes, and I can get a box unpacked.

Yeah, right.

Bootylicious

Booty Dance from Ronica on Vimeo.

This diaper made her butt look big, so Rowan decided to channel Beyoncé and do a booty dance. Topless blonde Beyoncé, that is.

Ha!

Finally. Captured on camera.



Rowan Laughing at her Dad from Ronica on Vimeo.

She really does laugh and smile, occasionally.

You Know You're A Mom When...

... you start dancing to the muzak at Walmart in the lampshade isle, just to make your baby laugh.

In my defense, I think it was Patti Smith.

Celebration

I won't be a *itch and tell you I was in my jeans 2 weeks after Rowan was born.

(Woops. Sorry about that. I just did, didn't I? Oh well, don't think it's anything I did. It's genetics, not willpower.)

But I have to celebrate today.

Thanks to breast feeding, stress, and being too lazy to walk downstairs and get the clean, folded jeans next to the dryer...
(drumroll)

I am wearing my SKINNY JEANS! For the first time in 2 years!
AND I AM EATING CARBS!!!

End brag.

(If it makes you feel better, I do have a big old zit on my forehead.)

Vacuum Debate

When we moved to France, we had to store all of our stuff. Dr. B, being the Obsessive-Compulsive that he is, freaked out at the end, and began throwing things away. Important things. Cleaning things.

He tossed my mop. My bucket. My broom. The dustpan. Even... the vacuum cleaner.

"It smells like dog! It stinks anyway. Doesn't work for crap."

Well, it did work (or else all that dirt I emptied out of the cup each time was imaginary.) And yeah, it smelled like dog. Likely, any vac would. Because we have a dog.

He was in the midst of a big freak out about getting us to France, learning the language, dotting all the i's and crossing the t's, having no money, etc., so I didn't argue. I know better than to argue with him when he's in the midst of a big freak out. (Or at least let him win part of it. It's a control issue. Logic schmlogic.)
We came back, and our new home had all hardwood floors. With no need for a big vac, I bought new mops and brooms, and made due with a small hand vac for necessary suck ups. It was fine. I still hate mopping, but it was fine.

Now we're in a place with carpet. Lots of new, nice carpet. And it needs vacuuming.

And so the argument begins.

I need your help. We are discussing the Bissell Lift Off and the Dyson Animal (or not the Animal--whatever, a Dyson anyway.) My sister has the Dyson, and loves it. However, I'm not in love with the ginormous price tag, whether I have a Bed, Bath and Beyond All Hope 20% off coupon or not (currently I don't.) Dr. B is convinced it is better, because the inventor is a scientist and of course scientists know better than people who have been making vacuums for umpteen billion years. I think he's buying into the hype of the brilliant inventor's brilliant marketing scheme, personally. Chances are, the Bissell works as well, or not so much worse that anyone would notice unless you told them. (Don't all people with Dysons tell you they have a Dyson? So you'll notice how clean their floor is, of course. Because you wouldn't have noticed otherwise.) The Bissell has a cool feature, too, that I like--the center part pulls out and is easy to carry around (I'm thinking stairs.) I'm not a neat freak (though my sister might argue), but I do like a clean house, especially with a little one who will eventually be toddling around it.

So, what do you think? All I can find online are a bunch of people who buy one, use it once, and rave about how great it is. Yeah, well, the first time you use a bagless it is pretty amazing to see the dirt. I'm over that. (Last one, the "doggie stinky vac" was a bagless, too.) I want to know if the Bissell does a good job, if it will last, and if it is a good alternative. I just have a hard time spending as much for a vacuum as I did for my wedding gown (which was worth every penny.)

UPDATE: We got the Bissell. It works great, is fairly quiet, moves very smoothly, and doesn't lose the on-board parts every time you move it. If it had a retractable cord, I think it would be the perfect machine. (Well, that and if it vacuumed the house for me while I was taking a nap. That would be even better.)

The Deal

Dr. B has been very busy at work, building his new program and wanting to impress (or at least not tick off) the people around him, so managing the household is pretty much left up to me (except for the AM and PM Lucy walks--he takes care of them.) With a house full of boxes and a 3.5 month old baby, I don't exactly have all my ducks in a row yet, but I'm working on it, slowly but surely. After waking up several days in a row with an aching back, I gave myself a little more slack when it comes to unpacking (and it helped--my back feels much better now). Dr. B promised to help more on the weekend, and I took him at his word. As long as I was able to sit on the couch again, find clean towels, clothes and dishes, and had a bed to sleep in, I could survive.

On Friday night, we were invited to a colleague's home for supper and dog-acquainting. Rowan had another of her no-nap days (after several blissful sleeping-through-the-night and 3 hour nap days), so I was a bit frazzled when he got home from the U. After helping him to find a pair of casual pants to wear (searching his closet and the laundry bin, and subsequently rejecting 5 or 6 options for various reasons), I asked him to change her pants and her outfit so I could also change out of my unpacking clothes, slap on a little lipstick and fluff up my hair.

He laid her on the couch, and got ready to change her pants. Overheard, from upstairs...

"It's naked time! Whoopee! Naked time! Are you ready?"

"Goooo!!!!" (that was Rowan.)

"Ok, here we go. Are you wet or poopy? Just wet. OK, no problem."

He pulls the diaper out from under her.

"Alright. So, I have to reach over there for another diaper. Now, don't pee. It will be just a second, so don't pee. Do we have an understanding?"

"Gaaaahhh!" (Rowan again.)

I am sure you can see where this one is headed.

He reaches for the diaper, and in that split second--you got it.

Pee.

All over the couch and his carefully chosen pants.

"Hey! Ack! What the... Argh! We had a deal! We had an accord!!! I thought we had an understanding!!!"

Rowan: "Goooo!!!"

Then, she giggled.

Yep. She knows exactly what she is doing.

Welcome to Cardboard City

So we're here! Officially Pennsylvania residents, and we're doing our part to fill up the local dumpster with cardboard. We've got a teeny path through which we can walk, but we're sleeping in our own beds and Dr. B even cleared me a spot on the couch where I can sit down tonight. Yes, sit! I'm excited.

I've come to a few conclusions: we have too much junk. I have waaaaaayyyy too much cooking/serving/eating/drinking stuff. (Perhaps this is why I am not a size 2.) I have way too many shoes. And clothes. And handbags. And books (but you can't blame me entirely for that one.)

Though we don't have as much kitchen space or basement storage, we do have big closets, 2 linen closets (we had zero in the other place), and central air. Hallelujah for that! Our internet was hooked up today, and as soon as I find the router, we'll even be wireless. We'll figure it all out, though it may take a while.

Rowan is growing and changing every day. Her newest trick is to wait until we are busy doing something and start fussing, until we run over to check on her. Then she laughs at us.

Great. Manipulation starting at 3 months old.

However, she is loving the stinky feet game, which is pretty fun for all involved. You smell her feet, say "Pew!" in a high pitched voice, and she laughs. It's pretty adorable, I must say. (And her feet don't stink yet, unlike her Mom's.)

So, you may hear from me occasionally, when I take a break from unwrapping more crap we really don't need but keep moving around with us anyway.

Right now I'm going to bed. It's been a long day.

Ergo Sum

If a tree falls in the woods...

So, do I exist?

Try it for yourself.


Hmmm... maybe this means I should actually still be living in France...